Stale rituals
that day
when the big president is
raised
from his nursing
bed. sought
out a cemetery
where a first-pod
had fallen. Finding
a crater
among gravestones
pre-dating the great
signing-over, I chanted
a homemade psalm
in the fog –
a prayer to counter
the unsung song
of the age.
Weak lament rose
and filled the crater
for a while, seeming –
once sung –
to settle n
the moss and soil
as if
scanned
and disassembled.
In such silence
had the first-pods
deciphered prophecy
from garbled
talk-shows and newscasts
hurled nightly
into the void
by our satellites.
Now a wordless alien canticle
shows to synapses
the expanse
of space,
screaming.
And earth
sings
eternal and forever
crumbling in cemetery
mist.